Across the Pond
by Sam C
Summary: On vacation in England, things do not go to plan for Scarpetta and her associates. Murder, intrigue and a dash of romance make it a holiday they won't forget in a hurry. Contains a F/F relationship and strong language.
1. Chapter 1

Across the Pond

Author's Note

I do not own the main characters, I am just borrowing them. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. I am not a medical professional of any kind, nor am I a lawyer or police officer, and as such I apologise for any factual mistakes I will no doubt make. I write for pleasure (mine and hopefully other people's), and would appreciate any reviews or comments. Thank you.

Sam C.

Chapter 1

Twigs cracked like a cap-gun under Lucy's pounding feet, the snapped remains resembling miniature, shattered bones which went unnoticed as the young woman ran with graceful rhythm. Dusk in the woods was a peaceful time to exercise, thought Lucy, though judging by the lack of other people jogging the trails, few agreed with her. Breathing barely quickened, the superbly fit former FBI and ATF agent covered ground at an admirable rate. Occasionally Lucy glanced around at the trees, which sported their autumn colours and cast shadows by the light of the rapidly setting sun. Though she ran with determination, her expression was one of pleasure.

This was a vacation, and the first she could remember enjoying for many years. Probably since childhood, she admitted privately, since Lucy Farinelli's adult life was not one she – or anyone else she knew – could recall with fondness. Leaping and stumbling from one bad shooting to the next, from toxic relationship to wrong decision to self-destruction, her path had been a catalogue of errors and poor judgement. Acknowledging this was the first step towards improvement, so she had been told by the professionals she consulted at staggering cost, and now she could move on. Being rich, she thought, why not move on whilst enjoying a holiday half-way around the world? Away from past memories, from the life she couldn't handle, with the exception of Lucy's closest friends and family.

"I understand why you'd want to go further afield than another state, Lucy," her aunt had begun, prompting her eyes to flicker skyward as the older woman continued, "but why England? There's nothing there that you can't have here, and the weather's miserable-"

"Aunt Kay," Lucy had started, quite patiently for her and not for the first time on this subject. "My mind's made up. I don't care about the weather, or the food, or the size of the damn place – I just want somewhere different, but where I don't have to speak another goddamned language. Are you and Benton with me or not?"

Kay Scarpetta paused before replying, looking up from her soapy hands that were scrubbing at a particularly stubborn streak of burnt-on Bolognese sauce across the bottom of a heavy saucepan. Blonde hair framed her strong features, more Scandinavian in appearance than would be suggested by her Italian family name. "Of course we'll come with you; I could do with a break too. I'm looking forward to it – we both are."

Recalling the conversation now, as she turned left onto a narrow footpath that would lead out of the woods and back to civilisation in the form of the old farmhouse she was renting, Lucy's daydreaming had unexpected consequences which brought her back to Earth with a thump. Literally.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" The rushed apology was accompanied by an outstretched hand which gripped Lucy's firmly and dragged her back upright. Though the fault was altogether hers, Lucy scowled automatically, as though that somehow made up for her embarrassment and lost dignity. Covered in mud and dead leaves, the young American felt decidedly silly, and made up for it in her usual manner.

"Yeah, right," she muttered, brushing herself off and pushing past the woman whom she had run into. Stalking past, Lucy glanced across, taking in a boyish, pixie-like face, the grin on which was wide and full of suppressed mirth. Her glance lingered longer than the fraction of a second she had intended, and for the second time in less than a minute she fell, tripping over an exposed root and stumbling into a patch of coarse bracken.

"Shit!"

Again, a hand reached out, this time accompanied by actual laughter. "Sorry," the blonde-haired pixie said again, helping Lucy up. "I've tripped over loads of times in the woods at this time in the evening, and I've been running here since I was twelve. Are you ok?"

Lucy's eyes met the younger woman's, holding her gaze. Her eyes were green like Lucy's, but paler, matching the colouring of her hair and skin, and the returning gaze was steady and bright.

"I'll live," replied the American, smiling back as she bent once again to swipe the worst of the debris from her jogging trousers. "Sorry I ran into you," she added, realising that the other woman had apologised without cause in a manner that was very English. "I'm not from around here, as you can probably tell, but there's still no ex-"

Breaking off mid-sentence, Lucy's fingers had encountered a warm stickiness on her clothes that was at odds with the rest of the dirt, and she raised her hand in front of her face. Though it was almost dark, there was just enough light to make out the smear of thick liquid that now trickled down her slender fingers.

"What's up?" the other woman asked, leaning closer to try and look, but Lucy turned swiftly, dropping to one knee and peering into the gloom. Her keen eyes found what her sharp mind already expected, and an outstretched palm provided confirmation. Next to where Lucy had tripped, lightly covered by waist-high bracken, lay a body. It was still warm.

* * *

><p>Kay Scarpetta tipped diced onions into the hot pan, and they landed with a satisfying sizzle that made her grin. Cooking, as far as she was concerned, was a pleasure to be savoured as much as the meal which followed, if not more. Taking up a wooden spatula, she stirred quickly, calling out as she did so. When there was no reply, she left her creation to itself and wandered across the large, stone-floored kitchen, typical of an English farmhouse, with thick wooden beams spanning the ceiling and an ancient cooking stove that she was growing rather fond of despite its temperamental behaviour. Poking her head around the wide doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room, Scarpetta spoke again.<p>

"What time do you two want to eat?"

The two men present looked up from their card game, one smiling, the other with a grumpy look that told her that Marino was losing yet again. Lean, handsome and casually dressed in a thick woollen jumper and jeans Marino's opponent, Kay's husband, flashed a grin. "I don't think we'll be playing for much longer," he told her, running a strong hand unconsciously through his greying hair. "Whenever it's ready will be fine."

Across the table, Marino's scowl deepened. "Just 'cause I'm losing don't mean I don't wanna play," the large man replied petulantly, one meaty hand slapping a card down in front of him. "Thirty-one." He reached out to advance a small peg a couple of holes down the board, then turned to his friend. "Smells good, Doc. I'm starving already."

"I've only just started," Scarpetta said archly, "but I'm pleased that you're both so hungry that you're rushing to help me."

"You want help, just holler," Marino winked, swigging deeply from a can of diet coke and smacking his lips loudly. Benton Wesley shot a disapproving look at his opponent and started to get to his feet, but was waved back.

"It's ok, I think I'll manage. About an hour, okay?" Scarpetta left the men to their game and, smelling burning, rushed hastily back to rescue the frying onions. The pattern was well-established, though the holiday was only a few days old, and for once it was…normal. Four people spending time together, doing ordinary things like cooking and walking and playing cards. For Scarpetta and her family, this was an occasion to enjoy to the full.

* * *

><p>"What is it? What've you found?" The woman's question was direct, her tone insistent, and Lucy looked up at her new companion, rising to her feet and shepherding the younger woman away from the bloodied corpse, blocking her view. Automatically she had checked for a pulse, locating the body's neck by feel, for it was too dark to see through the dense undergrowth and insidious bracken. But instead of a neck, Lucy's searching fingers had encountered a gaping slash that ran from ear to ear. The blood was very much still wet, the flesh warm as in life, and it didn't need her Aunt Kay to tell her that this person was very much alive barely minutes ago, which suggested that unless the unfortunate individual had cut their own throat, there was someone else in the woods, and they weren't there for jogging.<p>

About to speak when a crackle of leaves came from somewhere beyond the two women, further down the footpath, Lucy's reaction was immediate.

"Down!" she hissed, grabbing the blonde woman's arm and dragging her to the ground away from the body. Rustles and the crunching of dry twigs seemed to be approaching, with little regard for stealth, since Lucy had made less noise herself whilst running. She pressed down on one arm, her message to the woman clear - stay down - before springing up and charging in the direction of the noises, strong leg muscles pumping for maximum acceleration. The path was wider now, more light able to penetrate through the gap between the trees, and Lucy could make out a human-sized dark shape ahead. They collided roughly, cold metal crashing against her elbow, and she cried out as a sharp pain travelled up through her shoulder. Her quick, trained mind remained focused however, and instantly recognised the familiar shape and feel of a shotgun barrel. Grasping it with both hands and ignoring the searing stab from her elbow, Lucy wrenched the weapon from larger, stronger fingers, tossing it at hard as she could in a random direction.

Just seconds had passed, but time seemed to slow to a crawl as Lucy struggled with the man she had disarmed. Her fingers clutched at heavy fabric, legs kicking out where she perceived the other's stomach and groin to be, but she was attacking only shadows. Hands; real, hard hands, found Lucy's shoulders and slipped upwards, and suddenly she felt panic, remembering the slit throat she had found on the body lying nearby. Was this man the murderer? Did he have a blade, and was he about to use it? Struggling, she kicked out again, this time landing her foot on something solid, and the man grunted but still held on. Out of nowhere, another shadow flitted silently past Lucy's peripheral vision, and suddenly she was free, one of the arms pulled away violently with a muffled crack. Grunting again, more loudly this time, the large man turned and ran, the sound of his heavy footsteps receding into the surrounding woods.

"Are you ok?" The simple question was full of concern, and Lucy nodded mutely, feeling at her bruised neck. She felt the woman's arm on hers, and realised her response couldn't be seen.

"Yeah, I think. I'll call the police," Lucy stated, digging in a pocket for her iPhone, but the other woman stopped her.

"I'll do it. I know exactly where we are, and no offence, but with your accent it's just easier this way, trust me."

Nodding again, Lucy leaned against her rescuer, more for the comforting warmth than a need for support. An arm encircled her waist, drawing her closer.

* * *

><p>It wasn't the least comfortable interview room that had been graced by Lucy's presence, given the few potted plants dotted around, the chairs that had a bit of padding on the seat, the natural light coming through the window that wasn't in Lucy's eyes and the clean paintwork. Clearly a room for interviewing witnesses, not suspects, deduced the former FBI agent correctly, as a cup of pale brown liquid was placed on the table in front of her.<p>

"I'm not under arrest." It was a statement of fact, and the suited police officer sitting opposite her nodded in reply. "Then I am making a phone call, right now, from my cell phone, or I am walking away and making the call outside." Prevented several times from using her phone on the journey to the police station in which she now sat, Lucy's mood was that of irritation spilling into anger, and it showed.

Introducing himself as Detective Chief Inspector Rothery, the man looked more like an accountant, or perhaps a health inspector. Short and stocky, more rounded in places, his dark brown hair no longer completely covered the top of his head, and the effect was comical – or would have been, given different circumstances. When he spoke, his voice matched his appearance, a nasal whine with more than a whiff of officious arrogance that grated on Lucy's nerves from the first word uttered.

"I have no problem with that, Miss…Farinelli." Raised eyebrows accompanied his pronunciation of Lucy's surname, which he reduced to its component syllables as though speaking a completely alien language, rather than a simple-to-read Italian name that was no more difficult to say than 'tortellini'.

"Good." IPhone already in hand, she jabbed viciously at the screen, her growing attitude plain to see. After several seconds, Lucy's eyes narrowed, and she tapped in another number, followed by another after that. Finally, after a few minutes, she shoved the useless device back in her pocket and stared at the detective who regarded her silently.

"I told you I'm renting a farmhouse? There's obviously no damn signal there, and I need to contact my friends, one of whom will be my legal advisor, not that I need one since I've done fuck all wrong."

"Please mind your language, Miss Farinelli. We obviously need to ask you some questions, but I can arrange for someone to inform your, ah, friends, that you are here. Where is this farmhouse that you say you're renting?" The Chief Inspector's tone dripped with disbelief and sarcasm, and Lucy couldn't decide why. Perhaps a dislike of women, or Americans, or foreigners in general, or maybe the bastard was just that sort of person. She kept her voice under tight control as she answered.

"Near the woods where I found the body, about a mile to the North-East. It's called High Tor Farm."

Rothery tipped his head at his subordinate, who so far had not said a word. Red-haired – orange, to be more precise – with a plain face and lean physique, she had smiled for a fraction of a second when introduced as Detective Sergeant Smith, and since then had simply observed the conversation. Acknowledging her superior with a nod, she left the room. Lucy hid a smirk, sincerely hoping it was Marino who answered the police officer's knock.


	2. Chapter 2

Across the Pond

Author's Note

I do not own the main characters, I am just borrowing them. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. I am not a medical professional of any kind, nor am I a lawyer or police officer, and as such I apologise for any factual mistakes I will no doubt make. I write for pleasure (mine and hopefully other people's), and would appreciate any reviews or comments. Thank you.

Sam C.

Chapter 2

"And you say you were, ah, _jogging_, in the woods? In the dark?" The Chief Inspector's whiny tone had begun to sound like the drone of a particularly irritating wasp's nest, and was about as welcome.

Lucy's knuckles whitened as her fingers curled tightly in front of her, though she appeared anything but tense to those who didn't know her. To the detective and the uniformed officer who had replaced the surly figure of Sergeant Smith, the young woman appeared perfectly calm, at ease in the plain surroundings of interview room three. "Yes. I was jogging. It wasn't dark when I set off, and if I hadn't found a body, I would have been back at the farm before it was dark. Detective-"

"Chief Inspector," corrected the plump, short officer haughtily with an expression of having taken great offence.

"We have been through these questions half a dozen times. I am not going to change my answers. I am still here out of respect for the police, but-"

"How did you meet Miss Thompson?"

Interrupted mid-sentence, Lucy scowled, noticing with a tinge of admiration as she did so that it had not the slightest effect on Chief Inspector Rothery. "Who the hell is that?" she asked, for a moment genuinely confused.

"Miss…Freya Thompson. The lady who was with you in the woods when you, ah, found the body."

"I ran into her."

"Where did you run into her, Miss Farinelli?" A hint of impatience was showing in the large detective's tone, but his face remained set in an annoyingly blank expression with the hint of an arrogant smirk curling the corners of his wide-lipped mouth.

"In the woods. About a minute before I found the body. I wasn't looking where I was going and I ran into her."

"And then…?"

"Then she helped me up, I found blood on my clothes and looked down and saw the body, then some maniac came down the path with a shotgun and tried to fucking strangle me. I've told you all of this already. Has your Sergeant contacted my family yet?"

"How did you get away from the person who supposedly attacked you?"

It was the 'supposedly' that tipped Lucy over the edge into blazing anger. When she spoke, it was in a low growl that gradually gained in both pitch and volume as she leaned closer to Rothery's reddened face.

"I have told you. I didn't get away. He ran away, after the woman, Miss Thompson I presume, nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. I had thrown away his fucking shotgun, he must have been injured, so the bastard turned tail and ran away. Then we phoned the goddamned police - who by the way need to seriously improve their response time where murderous maniacs are concerned - you all turned up and shoved me into the back of that rubbish heap you called a car, and here I am being asked fucking idiotic questions whilst whoever the hell slashed that woman's throat is running around the countryside free as a fucking bird!"

A long pause ticked by, where nobody spoke. Lucy's fine features were reddened with anger, her green eyes flashing as she glared at the detective opposite. Rothery regarded her mildly, one eye squinting as his glasses had slipped down at one side. When the detective spoke, it was as though Lucy's outburst had never happened.

"How did Miss Thompson seem after the assailant had left the scene?"

It was a new question, and Lucy deigned to answer it with less acidity, speaking carefully but without hesitation. "She was fine. Calm, not panicking. She said she would phone the police, and she did."

"Thank you for now, Miss Farinelli. We're going to take a break; your family should be on their way. Would you like a drink, and something to eat?" Rothery's civility had the unaccustomed effect of making Lucy feel embarrassed, and she replied with equal politeness.

"A coffee would be good, thanks."

For the briefest of moments a smile passed between the dark-haired, feisty young woman and the older, balding detective, surprising them both.

After three prolonged bouts of knocking suggested that the visitors were not about to give up, Marino finally answered the door. It was gone ten o'clock in the evening on a cold November night, and he was worried. Although Lucy Farinelli was the smartest person he knew – smarter even than her Aunt Kay, and that was saying something – she wasn't careful. Marino knew that, and so did the other occupants of the old farmhouse which Lucy had rented. Marino's main worry was that Lucy had ignored the family waiting patiently for her and gone and done her own thing, and that her aunt would be hurt. Perhaps she had decided to extend her run into the night, for Lucy would not be stopped by dark and cold if she so decided. Or maybe she had travelled into one of the towns or cities (though they were some distance away, a taxi could be called) to enjoy a night away from her family. But a nagging feeling kept on at Marino through the evening, that Lucy would have sent a text message or email at least, to say what she was doing. Marino was worried.

Benton Wesley wasn't quite as smart as Lucy or Kay, but he knew people. His job as a psychiatrist allowed him to interact with different people on many levels, and he had known Lucy for years, though not as long as Pete Marino, who had taught her to swear, shoot and drink beer, in that order. Sitting in a comfortable lounge chair by the open fire which Kay had constructed and lit, Benton leaned back, thinking. There was no great reason for an adult to be worried about another adult who had gone out and not returned promptly, for there were hundreds of reasons to explain that. But it was Lucy. When Lucy disappeared, usually it spelled trouble. In England, she didn't have her guns, her computers or her car, and this reassured Wesley greatly, but he was still concerned. He was not sure why, but he knew that his wife's niece could, and did, find trouble just about anywhere. If anything, Wesley would have guessed that Lucy simply wanted some time away from them, and he hoped that she had found a way to be alone without harm, to herself or anyone else.

Kay Scarpetta was supremely unworried on the outside, whilst a knot of tangled fears and imagined scenarios curled around her stomach inside, threatening to eject the evening's meal at any moment. More than anyone, she knew what her niece was capable of getting involved in. Lucy could be going to the shop for a can of Coke and end up shooting a participant in a hostage negotiation on the other side of the world. Or she could return from her jog smiling and red-faced, having forgotten about the time and the anxieties of her companions. The worst thing was that Kay _never knew_. When the insistent knocking sounded for a third time, Scarpetta snapped at Marino, who rose to answer.

In the faint light seeping out through the closed curtains of the farmhouse, two figures stood on the doorstep, and Marino knew instantly that they were cops. There was a certain posture, a projected impatience at being kept waiting yet the certain assurance that they would have waited all night if need be.

"Yeah?" growled the ex-detective, scratching at his bald head. As one, both visitors stepped forward, revealing a lanky, young man whose serious expression looked at odds with his soft, boyish features, and an older woman with more curly orange hair than Marino had seen on any clown. She spoke first.

"Good evening, I'm Detective Sergeant Smith, this is Detective Constable Goodall. May we come in?"

Her sureness and confidence conveyed arrogance to Marino. "Why?"

"Are you Mr. Marino, sir?"

"Depends. You here 'bout Lucy? 'Cause if you are, you better just tell me what's happening, right now."

Smith frowned, clearly irritated that the conversation was not going according to her script. Framed in the doorway with the light behind, Marino's bulk was several feet away, the big man leaning casually against the wall, one meaty hand propping him up. "We have Miss Farinelli in for questioning at the station. I'm afraid you're all going to have to answer a few questions -"

"I ain't gotta do nothing, Sergeant. But me bein' a decent guy and all, I reckon I'll come with you back to your little station, make sure things are being done proper, like. Is Lucy ok?"

"She is fine." Smith took a deep breath and carried on. Marino was unlike anyone she had encountered before, and though his words were less than encouraging, she decided to take a gamble, for she sensed that here was a man she needed on her side. "Miss Farinelli discovered a body in the woods, approximately one mile from here. She is perfectly alright, I assure you, and she wants to see you – all of you. I will need to ask you some questions regarding Miss Farinelli's whereabouts this evening, I'm sure you understand."

Marino's eyes narrowed, then he nodded slowly. "Yeah. Give us a minute, then we'll follow you back."

The heavy, wooden door closed and the detectives heard Marino's heavy footsteps receding into the house. Both glanced at the other as the latch clicked shut. "That went well," remarked Smith, not sure herself whether the observation was meant to be sarcastic or not. With a man like Marino, it was hard to tell how things had gone.

Whatever the tepid brown liquid was, Lucy was certain that it had never seen a coffee bean. Maybe they used those beans that were picked by monkeys, she mused, and the monkeys had decided they were fed up of all that slave labour shit and picked their own faeces instead. It certainly tasted like it. She pushed the cup to the corner of the table, resisting the urge to tip it over the edge. She had been left alone for over twenty minutes, marked only by the loud ticking of a plain, plastic clock that hung on the wall behind her.

Footsteps preceded the opening of the interview room door, and it was the Chief Inspector who entered first, followed by Smith who had obviously returned from her errand. Lucy wondered what Marino had said to her, but noticed with faint chagrin that the Sergeant's cheeks were neither cherry-red nor ghostly pale, suggesting that the Marino encounter had been less interesting than Lucy had hoped for. Once more the tape recorder was switched on (about time they switched to digital mp3 recordings as far as Lucy's technological mind was concerned) and the questioning resumed.

"Your folks are on their way," Rothery began, shifting in his seat and tugging at the seat of his trousers as he settled. "We are just asking them a few questions relating to this evening's events."

I bet you are, thought Lucy. "When can I go?" she asked politely, looking the detective right in the eye.

Meeting her cool stare, the Chief Inspector replied casually, watching the dark-haired woman with practiced interest. "Just a few more questions, Miss Farinelli. You say this was the first time you had met Miss Thompson?"

"Yes." Lucy's voice was strained, mostly because she was fighting the urge to leap up and punch her interviewer on his jowly double chin. She imagined it flapping up and down as he toppled over like a fat, badly-dressed bowling pin

"Have you heard her name mentioned before, perhaps in the Red Cow, or the Post Office?"

"No." Lucy grinned. "The local pub isn't exactly my scene, Inspector. They don't like butch foreign dykes barging in and ruining their atmosphere of petty intolerance and cosy ignorance. As for the Post Office, I went in once and it took me half an hour to get to the window, where I had to convince some ninety-year-old woman that I did actually want to change dollars into pounds and not the other way around. I didn't do a lot of chatting."

Rothery smiled despite himself. This was one remarkably intelligent, quirky young woman, he thought, phrasing his next sentences carefully. "Miss Thompson is a teacher in the local school, as was her mother before her, and she is well known, as is her family. Have you met any of them?"

"I really wouldn't know."

"I'm afraid I do, Miss Farinelli." The older policeman glanced at his Sergeant and then looked down at some papers which rested on the desk before him, before raising his head and holding out one of the documents for Lucy to take. When she did, her stomach recoiled, for it was a photograph of the dead woman she had discovered earlier that evening, this time brightly lit by the photographer's flash bulb. She saw immediately what Rothery had meant, for in the light it was impossible to miss the resemblance.

"Sister?" Lucy guessed correctly, eliciting a nod from the Chief Inspector.

"Miss Ruth Thompson, Freya Thompson's younger sister."

"Does she know – Freya, I mean?" There was a concern in Lucy's voice that Rothery noticed, one which he had not expected and resolved to explore further when the time was right. For now, he answered softly.

"Miss Thompson has identified her sister's body and is being allowed home, having refused the offers of counselling and a lift home. You are also free to go now, though I expect we will have more questions for you as the enquiry progresses."

As Lucy made her way out, collecting her belongings and signing forms, her thoughts were on one thing, one person only. That person was sitting on a chair in the main entrance, and without hesitation Lucy strode towards Freya Thompson, ignoring the puzzled looks of her Aunt, Marino and Benton as she moved past them to the small, hunched figure in the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

Across the Pond

Author's Note

I do not own the main characters, I am just borrowing them. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. I am not a medical professional of any kind, nor am I a lawyer or police officer, and as such I apologise for any factual mistakes I will no doubt make. I write for pleasure (mine and hopefully other people's), and would appreciate any reviews or comments. Thank you.

Sam C.

Chapter 3

"Miss Thompson?" said Lucy, more gently than any other words she had spoken that day. "They told me about your sister," she continued, nodding her head back towards the interior of the police station. "I'm sorry." Lucy's tone was genuine as she looked the other woman in the eye, seeing tears welling which were starting to spill down her pale cheeks, not for the first time judging by tell-tale streaks which had been hastily and ineffectively wiped.

Freya Thompson looked up mutely, obviously distressed but with curiosity at the tall American. She was not surprised to see her, thought Lucy, as they were both taken to the station at the same time though in separate cars. It seemed as though the younger woman was waiting for Lucy to continue, despite the tears now rolling down her face and dripping onto her black jogging trousers.

"Do you have a ride home?" asked Lucy, moving to one side and perching awkwardly on the edge of an adjacent chair, not wanting to crowd the smaller woman's space. A shake of the head from Thompson told her no. "My friends and I would be happy to take you home. Will you come with us?"

Suddenly the trickle of tears became a torrent, accompanied by a low moan which suggested actual physical pain, and Lucy froze, for once at a loss. She had no idea what to say or do, but in an instant her aunt was there, shepherding Lucy gently aside and putting an arm around the crying woman. Standing with Marino and Benton, Lucy couldn't hear the words spoken by Scarpetta in a low, calm tone, but little by little the sobbing decreased and Thompson began to speak back to the older woman, haltingly at first then more controlled. Eventually Kay Scarpetta patted the younger woman on the back and rose to join the others.

"Miss Thompson – Freya, she insists – will be coming back to the farmhouse with us," she announced. Nobody objected and Scarpetta offered no explanations. She turned to Lucy and gave a small smile. "Freya wants you to know how grateful she is to you for protecting her earlier in the woods, but she's not really up to thanking you herself at the moment." Scarpetta stepped up to Lucy and hugged her tightly. "Good job," she whispered, sending a red flush of embarrassment creeping up her niece's neck and cheeks.

It was a relief when the hire car, a Land Rover Discovery driven by Marino, pulled up to the farmhouse across the bumpy gravel path. The ex-police officer drove like he was still on the force chasing bad guys around Richmond, Virginia, and the sturdy 4-wheel drive careened around the corners of the country lanes. If anything could take his passengers' minds off the events of the evening, it was Marino's driving. As they climbed out, the big man slapped the wheel admiringly. "Well, it ain't my old truck, but it's an okay ride."

"Maybe if you drove it in full automatic mode," began Scarpetta acidly, " rather than messing around with the paddle shift, it'd be a smoother ride for everyone."

Marino grinned. "Makes it fun, don't it? Feels like a racing car then."

"Just be thankful it wasn't a manual drive, or we'd still be back in the village," Lucy put in, reaching one arm out automatically to help Freya Thompson from the car. Their guest appeared shocked and hadn't said a word or looked up since the exchange with Scarpetta in the police station.

The beefy man adopted a hurt expression, given away only by a curl at the corners of his lips. "Hey, I can drive a stick shift!" he replied, nudging Benton in the ribs who hastily took two steps away from Marino.

"Not with me in it, you can't," retorted Lucy. Catching a sharp glance from her aunt, the dark-haired woman frowned, then turned away from the conversation and began to walk slowly to the wide front door, a hand on Thompson's arm guiding her alongside. Scarpetta took Freya's other arm and together they ushered the dazed woman into the living room. Her tears had stopped, but she was red now from crying, and by the way she was holding her neck stiffly the medical doctor in Scarpetta realised that she probably had a headache.

"Freya, I'm just going to go into the kitchen with Lucy and our friend, Pete," Scarpetta said softly, waving a hand towards Marino who nodded in greeting. "My husband, Benton, will stay here with you. Is that alright?"

Nodding, but without any indication she had understood, the young woman sat down and stared numbly into space, not registering her surroundings. Lucy glared at her aunt and edged towards Thompson, her message clear, but Scarpetta shook her head slightly and moved purposefully towards the kitchen, followed by Marino and an irritated Lucy who, as soon as the heavy door closed, launched into a speech.

"I'd like to stay with her, Aunt Kay. After all, I'm the one who found, you know, and we, well, we had a kind of connection. She saved my life, y'know? So I think she'd appreciate it if I went back in there and-"

"Honey, I know you want to be in there with Miss Thompson. I know that you went through a lot today too, and for all I know she might want you in there. But at the moment, I think it's best we let Benton talk to her, and that we don't confuse the poor woman with too many people at once. " Scarpetta's voice was firm and not to be argued with. "Right now," she continued, "why don't you tell us exactly what happened? All we got from that officer-"

"Sergeant Orange," interjected Marino with a snigger.

"All we were told," continued Scarpetta with a look which would have frozen most people on the spot, but had little effect on the large ex-cop, "was that you found a body, that of Ruth Thompson, our guest's younger sister. What happened, Lucy?"

"Yeah, how the hell did you manage to find a corpse out here in the middle of nowheresville?" growled Marino. "Hell, I can't even find a burger joint, and that's sayin' something."

There was no getting out of it, thought Lucy. She might as well tell the entire story yet again, or they'd never leave it alone. Anyway, it was probably best that they knew the details, if the other witness was to be staying with them for even a short time. Lucy made a mental note to ask her aunt exactly how that had happened, and why she had invited a stranger - a stranger whose sister had just been brutally murdered - to stay with them, out of the blue.

* * *

><p>"Do you think she had anything to do with it, Sir?"<p>

Detective Sergeant Alison Smith was confused. As far as she was aware, the Farinelli woman, whilst an irritating pain in the backside, was simply a witness to the horrific murder of Ruth Thompson, and a plucky character for fighting off the man who then attacked her and Freya Thompson. Yet her superior had spent the evening making telephone calls in his office, finding out more about the odd group of Americans, in particular Lucy Farinelli, and Smith wasn't at all sure why.

Leaning back in his comfy chair, which he had dragged from office to office every time he had moved, Rothery closed his eyes, looking somewhat like a praying Buddha. Without looking, he spoke. "From what little information I've managed to glean from our Interpol liaison – which I might add is no more than I found myself using Google – and an old friend of mine who works for the FBI, these people are the bees' knees as far as solving crime is concerned. Take a look at this," he said, slapping a wad of printouts in front of Smith, who after standing and craning her neck for a minute decided that she might as well sit down, since the Chief Inspector hadn't even opened his eyes yet.

After a few minutes of speed reading, Smith realised her superior officer's problem. Between them, individually and working together, the four Americans had solved more violent crimes than the North Yorkshire Constabulary had in the last twenty years, or fifty years, or a century – Smith wasn't sure, but it was a lot. Not just your average assaults either, but serial killers, rapists, sadistic criminals who tortured their victims in unspeakable ways. All of them had, at some time or another and more than once, been a target of a killer, and managed to survive, usually by killing their would-be murderer.

"Maybe I should just turn this murder case over to them," muttered the balding detective, rubbing at his nose and finally looking at his junior officer, who stared back, unable to speak. "They'd probably have identified the person responsible by teatime tomorrow and have him safely locked in the cells by supper. Thank God we don't allow tourists to carry guns," added Rothery, shaking his head slowly. "We'd have had another body in the woods if that Farinelli woman had been armed, judging by her record. This is a bad one, Sergeant."

Smith nodded. "Still, sir, we've got the statements in now. We might not have to speak to them again a great deal more, and if we need any clarification we can send Goodall along to ask the questions. If she – Farinelli – wasn't involved in the murder, surely they'll all stay out of our way while we keep out of theirs?"

"If only it was that simple, Sergeant," sighed the Chief Inspector. "We'll wait and see."

* * *

><p>"That's all," ended Lucy, finishing her recount of the evening from the time she stumbled whilst jogging to being released by the Chief Inspector. She took a long swig of coffee, now lukewarm, from a giant earthenware mug that dwarfed her slender fingers, and looked at her audience expectantly.<p>

A small frown turned Scarpetta's lips down as she thought over what she had heard from her niece, whilst former Captain Marino slammed a huge fist on the solid granite worktop, causing a slight shudder through the heavy, built-to-last furniture.

"They've got a damn cheek, interrogating you like that. How dare that sonofabitch – excuse me, I mean asshole," Marino caught himself, or tried to, after a brief flicker of Scarpetta's eyebrows, "treat you like a frickin' perp! What, does he reckon you had somethin' to do with that stiff you fell over?"

With a scowl, the large man stopped and sat back heavily on his stool, taking a slurp from a fresh can of diet coke that almost drained it dry. Although he had given up alcohol, it seemed that Marino had a new vice, for he was rarely seen without a caffeine-heavy drink. Ignoring Marino's outburst, Scarpetta regarded Lucy thoughtfully. "You say the body was still warm and the blood was sticky, but not completely liquid?"

Lucy nodded. "It was gloopy, enough to stick to my jog pants."

"And the man who attacked you appeared no more than a minute after you found the body?" The younger woman nodded again. "Which way was Miss Thompson – Freya – running when you first met her?"

Her boyish face wrinkled as Lucy recalled the moment she first ran into Thompson. "From another path which joined the one I was on, which then continued along to where the body was found. Like an upside-down capital Y, with me on the left leg and Freya running up the right leg."

"And the attacker was walking towards you both, without attempting to be quiet, even though he must have heard you talking?"

"Mebbe _because_ he heard you talking," Marino cut in, his tone thoughtful. "He'd been along a minute ago, done his bit of work on the girl, but before he could get gone he hears the two of you and thinks he better sort you out too, or else his slicin' and dicin' would get back to the cops before he's got a chance to beat it."

"Perhaps," replied Lucy slowly, "but if that's the case, why not just blow our heads off with the 12-bore? It's not like there was likely to be anyone else nearby, and even if there was, it's hardly unusual to hear a shotgun out in the woods at dusk."

The three of them were silent for a minute, each trying to make sense of what had happened and think through Marino's common sense suggestion. Eventually Scarpetta rose from her stool, stretching her limbs as she did so. It had been a long and unexpectedly stressful evening. "I hope the police figure it out soon," she said bleakly, "or we might have to stay longer than we planned."

At that moment, Benton walked through the door from the living room, carefully closing it behind him. He looked composed enough, but Scarpetta saw the tension in his hands as he crossed the kitchen and slid his arms around his wife, kissing her gently. Disentangling herself from his embrace, Scarpetta asked "How is she?"

"Not bad, considering," Benton answered, tipping his head on one side. "She's a strong-willed woman, not one to dissolve in a crisis, though if she keeps it bottled up too much I'm worried that she might take longer to come to terms with her sister's death."

"Did she say much at all?" Lucy asked, sounding concerned even though she tried to give an impression of nonchalance.

Benton nodded briefly. "A little about when she met you, and about the attack. She's not afraid to talk about that, which is good, for her and for the investigating officers. When I asked about her sister, though, she clammed up – wouldn't tell me a thing, not even general information. I'm guessing there's a complicated relationship there, some issues between them, I don't know." He sighed and looked at Lucy, a small smile on his handsome features. "She agreed to some hot chocolate, and asked if you could be the one to take it to her. As for the rest of us, I think we should get some sleep."

"At last," grumbled Marino. "I'm on vacation, y'know, if you hadn't forgotten. There's enough goddamn murders back in the states without getting' messed up in anything out here. 'Night then." He drank the last of his coke and stomped out of the kitchen, throwing the empty can towards the bin and missing by a foot. "Bugger," he swore, ignoring it anyway, the door banging shut behind him.

Scarpetta took her husband's hand and they made for the same door that Marino had just left by, Benton pausing to retrieve the can and place it carefully in the dustbin for recyclable items. "See you in the morning," said Scarpetta softly, receiving a wave in return from her niece, who was already boiling milk in a pan and spooning cocoa powder into two of the enormous mugs that filled one of the cupboards. As they climbed the stairs, Scarpetta stopped and turned. "I hope she'll be ok."

Benton smiled and gently pushed Scarpetta from behind, nudging her to keep going. "It's probably good that Freya wants to talk to Lucy. She was there this evening too, and it's obvious they click, despite the terrible circumstances."

Scarpetta was unimpressed. "That's what I'm worried about," she hissed, jabbing her finger in the direction of the sitting room. "Lucy 'clicking' with the sister of a murder victim, who was discovered by Lucy – none of this is good."

"Don't underestimate Lucy," Benton replied with a grin, placing his strong hands on Scarpetta's hips and propelling her upwards. "She's more sensitive than you think, and she's grown up a hell of a lot in the last year. Let's head to bed, ok?"

Finally allowing herself to be ushered upstairs, Benton made sure that Scarpetta quickly forgot about her niece and their unexpected houseguest. Downstairs, Lucy awkwardly pushed her way into the living room whilst carrying two steaming hot mugs of cocoa, ignoring the burning and wearing a sympathetic smile. Her dark hair was styled very short, and hadn't seen a comb for days, and she still wore the running clothes she had put on almost seven hours ago.

"Hey, Benton said you wanted cocoa. Here," Lucy said, handing a heavy mug to Thompson, "it's pretty hot, and a bit too full, sorry." She sat down on a chair a little away from the younger woman and watched her as she held the drink without trying it. "I want to say, well, you know, I'm sorry about everything." Sounding as awkward as she felt, Lucy cursed her lack of social graces inwardly.

Freya, after several moments of silence, glanced up at Lucy. Though her face was pale, her green eyes were dry, Lucy was pleased to note. The young woman shifted in her seat before she spoke. "I want to thank you, for what you did in the woods." She paused, looking away uncomfortably. "If you hadn't been there…"

"Same here, Freya," Lucy reminded her gently. "If you hadn't been there to save my ass, we'd probably not be here sipping hot chocolate. Speaking of which," Lucy shifted over and leaned across to the smaller woman, pressing lightly upwards on the arm that held the mug, "drink it while it's hot. I'm not sure we've enough milk for another one." She grinned, and was rewarded by a sad smile from Thompson, who complied. Lucy left her hand there for a minute before settling back into her seat.

"I'm glad you were there," said Thompson softly, after savouring a mouthful of the thick, sweet cocoa. "I – if we hadn't – if it hadn't been like that, I think I might have wanted to get to know you anyway." Her eyes met Lucy's again, this time with an almost fierce look, one of determination that often showed in Lucy's own. "I still want to get to know you," whispered the blonde, a slight flush creeping up her cheeks.

Setting her mug down on the wooden floor, Lucy moved like a cat, gracefully but with caution, easing over towards the other woman and removing the drink from her grasp. She took Freya's hands and pulled her upright, hard enough that the smaller woman fell against her and was wrapped in Lucy's strong arms. She smelled Thompson's scent, shampoo or deodorant with a hint of orange, and lightly kissed the smooth skin of her neck. Feeling arms hesitantly passing around her own waist, Lucy slowly laid a trail of kisses to the lips of the other woman, where she lingered gently, feeling her new friend respond. Without speaking, the older woman pulled away and took Thompson's hand, leading her towards the stairs.

It wasn't until much later, as Lucy lay awake, one arm protectively around her new lover, that she realised she had never asked her aunt why she had invited Thompson to stay with them in the first place.


End file.
